


Countdown

by emAvox



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Timer!Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:34:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emAvox/pseuds/emAvox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On nights when he can’t sleep, he watches his wrist, staring until his eyes droop and finally close. He dreams of someone who likes cats and video games and who will hug him when he’s sad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry this is total crap but I couldn't find one to read so it had to be written. 
> 
> Timer!AU- clocks counting down to when you meet your soulmate. Added bonus of an extra timer counting down to the death of said soulmate. Slightly different though- in this fic, the timer is implanted underneath the skin, not just attached to the wrist. Side-note- Timer is a great movie! Go watch it!

.  
The clock on David’s wrist stays zeroed out until he’s twelve years old, about three months after he’s allowed to have the surgery to get it implanted. His mother and father are talking over a table of cards while the freckled blond watches his favorite crime-fighting cartoon on the break room TV when it happens. The digital figures suddenly appear and catch his eye, right as the bad guy get what’s coming to him, the red numbers glowing lightly under his skin. They go crazy for a few moments before they settle down with a light, three note chime, drawing the attention of his parents, calling them to him. His mother cries a little, his father claps him on the back, but David doesn’t fully understand until his parents explain. From then on, David feels a reassuring pressure where the numbers slowly count down by the seconds until he’s supposed to meet his perfect match. On nights when he can’t sleep, he watches his wrist, staring until his eyes droop and finally close. He dreams of someone who likes cats and video games and who will hug him when he’s sad.  
.  
A year later, another number appears on his wrist, this one in blue. It doesn’t come with a chime, nor is it well received by his parents. They frown at the figures, give each other same the look David sees when there’s a dead animal on the side of the road, and don’t comment. He asks, but they don’t explain it. They say nothing when the red number freezes and zeroes out again. Their silence is oppressive, so he stops asking, but he doesn’t stop wondering.  
For months, the numbers disappear and reappear, alternating red and blue every other day, it seems. They stay on the fritz for a while, but David never hears the chime when the red numbers come back. If his anxiety grows while the digits fluctuate under his skin, he doesn’t say anything. He just wishes that the Day would come.  
.  
He grows up surrounded by soldiers, becoming familiar with training tactics and the different types of guns they use. He is endlessly amused by hand to hand sparring matches, loving it when someone ends up sprawled on their back in defeat, and he is allowed to start training on his fifteenth birthday. His mother teaches him how to shoot, his father helps him build his knife skills, and every other soldier on the UNSC base his parents are stationed on pitch in, too, always claiming that “it takes a village!” He learns how to hold his own in poker, can sneak with the best, and by the age of seventeen he can take down several of the operatives without even trying. His parents try to dissuade him from enlisting, but he stubbornly refuses to listen to them. It’s his life, after all.  
“And,” he points out. “if I was going to die during service, wouldn’t the numbers tell me?”  
He grows into one of the finest young soldiers the base has seen in years, and he can’t imagine being any happier- his parents love him, the people at the base look after him, and the ever-changing numbers on his wrist slowly count down until the Day.  
.  
He figures out the blue number when another soldier collapses to his knees, clutching his wrist, and begins to wail at its sudden appearance. 5, 4, 3, 2…  
The man is surrounded by his friends and fellow soldiers, all consoling, comforting, but he doesn’t seem to be able to hear them. David has a sudden, crushing realization that whoever is his better half is going to die, just like this man’s, and he can’t do anything about it. He doesn’t know what their name is, doesn’t know if they’re a human or another species, doesn’t know how to warn them because he can’t. There is no way for him to save this person he doesn’t know, this person who will complete him, and all he has is a wrist of numbers that count down to the decimation of his chance at a life that everyone else seems to have, constantly fucking with him. Red blue red blue, he thinks, what’s the difference?  
Selfishly, he cares more about the fact that he will never feel as complete as his parents than he does about the fact that a nameless person is going to die. He feels the first pulse of anger rush through him and he can’t run from it, can’t hide, just like he can’t escape those damn numbers on his wrist. He remembers the red numbers that promised him a happy future and feels sick, tired of being jerked around by a digital clock under his skin. So fuck it, he decides. If his “soulmate” or whatever is going to die, then why shouldn’t David just go ahead and enlist? After all, he thinks while his blood boils, if something was going to happen, the numbers would tell me, right?  
.  
Special Agent Washington joins Project Freelancer as soon as he’s able and starts going by his newly given name immediately after. He doesn’t look back. It makes him feel like he’s a different person than the numbers say he is. He knows it isn’t true, but he can at least pretend. He makes friends, loses his parents in the war, tries to fall in love with Connie, and keeps moving. He considers removing his Timer at the suggestion of Freelancer’s medical staff but then decides against it. He might not be able to stand looking at the numbers anymore, but he feels obligated to keep them until the person on the other end is gone. Maybe then, he tells himself, he’ll be able to truly move on. He gets shot at and almost dies a handful of times, all the while ignoring the numbers. He’s secretly relieved when he gets a few scars over his wrist that interrupt the dull light under his skin. The scars make the numbers easier to ignore, but he can always feel their weight. He’s in the desert searching for the final AI fragment when his wrist starts burning. He’s knows that it’s his Timer, but he doesn’t bother to look, doesn’t have the time (not ironic, but odd). He thinks to himself, that’s war, and keeps moving. He’s always moving.  
.  
The situation with the Meta and Tex and Church and the Reds and Blues finally comes to a head on some shitty snowy field surrounded by mountains perfect for sniping. He wishes that he could say he’s more surprised that things end up the way they do, he really does, but things with Tex never go according to plan and the Meta was a wild card to begin with. The Warthog is blown up and when he blinks he’s on his back coughing, his ears ringing and his hands bloody, his primary firearm out of range. He fights as best he can, almost going over a cliff for his troubles (several times), and is only saved because Doc, while unable to make a good throw, has enough sense to at least toss the tow line of the Warthog over the edge.  
He’s not even really surprised by Meta’s betrayal, but God, every time he fights the Meta, Wash misses his old friend Maine more and more. He takes Meta’s bullet and goes on one knee, struggling to stay composed through the pain as a stolen UNSC ship flies straight toward them. He staggers toward the wrecked vehicle with Church, noticing a new soldier as his wrist starts to tingle. He ignores both the new man (Tucker— why does his name sound so familiar? Caboose must have been talking about him.) and the sensation in favor of the matter at hand- mostly, staying alive. There are negotiations and more fighting with the Meta and when he gets hit for the last time, he goes down hard. He fades in and out for a while, watches the Reds and Blues try to fight his fight, hands Sarge his shotgun when he thinks he’s done, and drifts. He comes back to awareness with his left wrist absolutely on fire and the soldier in teal walking away from him as Doc hovers, worried. He’s helped up, looked over, changed into Chu- Epsilon’s armor, and brought into the fold of one of the strangest groups he’s ever had the (dis) pleasure of meeting. He catches sight of his wrist while he changes and sees that the blue number is gone and the red number is back and is very, very small. He files it away under “Shit to Think about Later” and moves on.  
.  
In the end, his Timer goes off in such an embarrassing way that he’s unable to talk about it without blushing for weeks. The Reds and Blues are clambering off of their stolen Pelican in Valhalla and Wash stumbles into the soldier in teal, exhausted and on the verge of collapse. The guy- Tucker, he reminds himself- grabs Wash by his shoulders, calls for Doc, who’s over by the Reds, and carefully walks him to a nearby crate so he has something to lean on as he slides gracelessly to the ground. Tucker helps him get settled before he reaches over to pop Wash’s helmet off, freezing when Wash grabs his wrist to stop him.  
“Wash?” The first word spoken between them since Tucker told of giving into Caboose’s request to keep him. Tucker is kneeling in front of him, concerned and a little exasperated, patiently waiting for Wash to respond, and it should really bother Wash how easily they’re getting along right now but he doesn’t question it, doesn’t know if he has the energy to do anything but sit there.  
“I—” Wash stops, throat sore as his voice abruptly croaks out. “I can…”  
“Okay.” Tucker says easily. He waits for Wash to let go of his wrist before dropping his hand down to the ground, easing his descent until he’s seated in front of the ex-Freelancer. Wash still feels a little light-headed from blood loss and doesn’t seem fully in control of his limbs, so he just sits there for a while with Tucker.  
The other soldier exhales deeply and reaches under his chin to prod at the mechanism locking his helmet onto the rest of his armor. There’s a light click, and Tucker is pulling his helmet off and tossing it beside him. He sighs and Wash looks up, sees the dreadlocks and the dark skin, the scar on his cheek and his green eyes and he can feel his blush burning up his cheeks and his neck because goddamn is Tucker attractive. Wash can hear a faint three note chime and he yanks off his own helmet. Tucker recoils in surprise before throwing his head back in a full-body laugh the likes of which Wash hasn’t seen nor heard in years. Tucker’s Timer goes off only moments after Wash’s and Tucker is absolutely glowing as he looks Wash over, looks and examines and catalogs everything he can about the man who’s apparently his soulmate. Wash can tell that he’s smiling like an idiot but he can’t stop himself from laughing because he never thought that he could have this, never believed after the blue number and Freelancer that he could have something good in his life.  
They don’t immediately start making out of anything, regardless of what Simmons is totally sure he saw, but they do sit in a companionable silence until Doc comes back over to check Wash’s wounds. Tucker throws out some shitty pick-up line about clocks and everyone around them is groaning, Wash included, but Tucker just laughs again, moving to sit beside Wash and look up at the sky.  
Wash doesn’t say anything when he feels Tucker’s pinky tap lightly against his, but he does tap back.  
.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me for that monstrosity.


End file.
